Man of Discretion
by Edward Carson
Summary: John Bates is a man "who keeps himself to himself." This account provides some of the backstory to Bates's life before Downton and also seeks to give context to some of the dramatic developments involving Anna. The style here is heavily introspective and the narrative largely adheres to canon.
1. Chapter 1: Salter

**Salter**

In one of the final actions of the battle of Paardeburg, Private John Bates finds himself in a sticky situation. His knee cut from beneath him by a random scrap of shrapnel, he lies quietly awaiting medical attention which may be some time in coming. He's not particularly worried. The artery is sound and the bones have not been shattered. He's in pain, but he'll walk again. Left behind as the mopping up operations unfold some distance away, he sees something he is not supposed to see. It is an act of brutality perpetrated on unarmed enemy wounded who now will never return home. At home, in England, some are beginning to call such incidents war crimes.

The perpetrator is a raw-boned youth from his own unit, the Yorkshire Regiment. If he has set eyes on the fellow before, he doesn't remember him. This is not especially odd. His position as batman to one of the regiment's titled junior officers has kept him apart in some ways. Bates has little sympathy for the dispatched enemy. He hates the Boers and their stupid war and now the fact that they've made him a cripple, even if only temporarily. The sticky part is that he's been seen by the perpetrator. The man has already shown he has no mercy for the wounded Boers, and Bates wonders whether he will feel the need to eliminate the witness as well. There is no one around. It could easily be done. Who would question the death of a wounded man on an active battlefield, struck by a stray bullet? It's beyond doubt that no one will ever question the peculiarly heaped-up pile of the enemy and the neat holes in their skulls that sent them to hell, or wherever it is the Boers will go. When the private locks eyes with him, they both know that something must happen between them. They cannot just walk away and pretend it did not happen. Bates cannot even walk away.

Bates stares at the other man, determined to hold his eyes until the fateful moment when he follows the Boers into oblivion. He will not make it easy for this fellow. He will challenge him in every second that remains to his life. His own rifle disappeared in the explosion that sent the shrapnel into his knee and made it impossible for him to escape now, let alone to defend himself. He waits, but he waits fiercely. He will not let this man off the hook.

He stares hard as the young man makes his way down into the dip and then up the slope that separates them. Bates is young, too, twenty-five his last birthday, but this one is younger, perhaps twenty-one or twenty-two. They've both lived hard lives; he can tell this about the other from the grim determination with which he reloads his rifle, the deliberation with which he returns Bates's brittle glare. Perhaps this makes them comrades, more so even than the uniform they both wear. There must be something, because the private does not bring his rifle to bear on the wounded man before him. Instead, he props the weapon up against a nearby tree and crouches down beside Bates, drawing back some of the shredded fabric, sodden with blood, that still covers Bates's knee.

"Bad?" he asks. He doesn't know, can't tell.

Bates shakes his head. "Hurts like hell, but I'll live." He says this quite deliberately, willing an acknowledgment of it from the other as much as imparting a fact.

The private nods and sits back on his haunches. The position stabs at Bates as ruthlessly as any knife blade. Will he ever be able to do that again? Then he realizes he's thinking about living again, suddenly confident that the other man will do him no harm.

This appears borne out when the young fellow stuffs a hand into a pocket and comes out with a small package which he carefully unwraps. Cigarettes. He holds them up to Bates, who nods. What else is there to do in this moment but have a smoke? The other lights two of them and hands one to Bates, and for a long moment they puff on their cigarettes and say nothing.

"What's your name?" the other asks.

"Bates." Bates sees no reason to lie to the man. In fact, he senses that this effort at cordiality will only ensure his survival. Some men can't kill when the target has become human.

The other fellow doesn't offer his own name, but he nods as he takes a long drag of his cigarette and blows the smoke out in an impressive series of concentric circles. "Well, Bates, I've just sent three damned Boers to hell." His eyes suddenly fix on Bates's. He is asking a question.

"Isn't that our job?" Bates responds coolly, blowing smoke out through his nostrils. He does not go in for cigarette smoking theatrics. He stares right back, giving nothing away.

A smile slides across the younger man's face. "Are you from Yorkshire, mate?"

Bates thinks he said 'mate,' but it might have been 'Bates.' The accent, a distinctly Yorkshire one, is a little hard to decipher. "No."

The other nods. "Well, one good turn deserves another, Bates," - this time he does say the name - "so if you ever find yourself up north and in need, drop by The Pickerel in York." He laughs at the line of incomprehension that creases Bates's forehead. "It's a pub. The family business. After this little adventure," he adds, his gaze wandering across the bloody veldt, "I'm going back there and never leaving again."

Bates understands the code of honour on display here. The fellow owes him, and needs at least an acknowledgment that he might someday be able to pay his debt. "I'll keep that in mind," he says noncomittally, and then poses a silent question of his own.

The other laughs and holds out a blood-soaked hand in friendship. "Salter," he says.

"How will you know me?" Bates asks, not particularly interested in the response.

Salter laughs. "You'll be the one with the limp."


	2. Chapter 2: Captain Crawley

Being the soldier-servant to an aristocrat who has joined the fray in a moment of boredom with the tedious day-to-day concerns of his estate is not what John Bates had in mind when he shipped out to South Africa to fight the Boers. The reason you go to war is to fight, and helping some fop off and on with his various uniforms is a stupid task when the enemy is out there, waiting to kill or be killed. So Bates thinks when he is singled out for this duty. He undertakes it reluctantly. He has come here to kill the Boers.

But Robert Crawley, the Fifth Earl of Grantham, is a pleasant surprise. He is no pampered pet. Clearly he has had an easy life and is used to having things his way. But he is courteous, grateful, and modest. Crawley treats his batman with respect. Both are novices to these particular arrangements, although Crawley has an advantage over Bates in that he has long had a valet to clean his boots and help him into his evening attire at home, whereas Bates has never helped a man on with so much as a coat before. The peculiarities of military dress are a challenge they work out together. And batmans do fight, following their officers into battle. It turns out that Crawley has professional training as a soldier, even if he has not seen combat before. But then, many of the men are green, too. When he sees Crawley in the midst of danger, Bates's apprehensions quickly fall away. The captain is careful with the men under his command and he has a well-grounded understanding of both the strengths and limitations of his training. There is no Napoleonic ego here. And he learns quickly, and in battle demonstrates a cool head as well as a brave heart.

Crawley is in his early thirties, married with three children - daughters - and an estate in Yorkshire called Downton Abbey. His wife in an American. His father died in 1895, making him the Fifth Earl of Grantham. His title brings him the position of Lord Lieutenant of the County, but on enlistment in this war he deliberately requested a more modest rank as captain, acknowledging the limits of his military experience. At first Bates is sceptical of "my lord's" commitment to the fight, but over time he realizes it is possible to be an aristocrat and a patriot, too. Crawley really feels a duty to his country and is prepared to risk his life in meeting it. This is something they have in common.

Bates is more guarded in the personal details he imparts to this officer. He never parts with information unnecessarily. It is just a reflection of his nature. His opportunities to do so are proscribed anyway. While the officer talks expansively of his life at Downton Abbey, on the assumption that the batman cares, he asks few questions of his servant. This is, Bates understands, how it is in domestic service. The staff know the family's intimate secrets, while the family seldom knows anything beyond the names of their employees. This suits Bates. He likes Captain Crawley, thinks him a good man. Despite the social and economic chasms that separate them, they get on well together. Bates is a loner by nature, but the impulses of loyalty and honour run as deep in him as they do in the blue-blooded Earl. It is difficult to breach Bates's internal defenses, but once he is won over, he cannot be shaken. Oddly enough, Captain Crawley appears to share these sensibilities. As they become better acquainted and are obliged to rely on each other in the heat of battle, their appreciation for the other grows, and Bates senses that the Yorkshire aristocrat will stand by him if it becomes necessary. Bates counts on no one to guard his back, but he thinks Crawley would do it admirably.

Crawley has to leave him, of course. There is no time for gratitude or even acknowledgment. He is responsible for his regiment and cannot stay to play nursemaid to a single wounded soldier, even if that soldier were in dire straits, which Bates does not appear to be. Even Salter has to move on, resume more legitimate pursuits. Bates waits, more or less patiently, for the stretcher-bearers to appear and then for those more seriously wounded than he to be removed.

In the field hospital, Bates waits an interminably long time to be treated. He is less concerned about the pain, which he handles with characteristic stoicism, than about the possibility of infection. Gangrene. Sepsis. These are terrible words and may carry a death sentence. For Bates, amputation promises only a slower form of death. He channels his fears into questions about mobility. Will he walk again? Will he walk without assistance? Will he have a limp? The medic cannot answer those questions when finally Bates's turn comes up. Bates does not have that much faith in him. He does not shrink before the rigours of everyday life on the lower stratum of society, nor has he ever recoiled from the dangers of active military service. But he trembles just a little, inwardly, at the unseen menace of infection that may take his life or maim him forever.

Captain Crawley comes looking for him and Bates appreciates this. The officer is responsible for many men and has other duties to attend to. But he comes.

"This means I'll be out of action for a while," Bates tells him, putting a brave face on it.

"We're all going to be out of action before you're up and around again," Crawley says confidently. "We've beaten them soundly. I'm not one for military predictions, Bates, because I'm just not that well informed, but I'd be willing to bet they'll be suing for peace soon. And then we'll all be going home."

"Looking forward to it, sir?"

Crawley looks wistful. "Yes. It's silly to say, but war is a bloody business. Not just bloody, but bloody-minded. It may be necessary sometimes, but it seems to me there ought to be a better way to resolve conflicts. And I am looking forward to seeing my family again. What about you?"

Bates shrugs. "At the moment, I'm only hoping that I'll be able to walk down the gangplank at Southampton unaided."

Crawley smiles encouragingly. "I'm sure you will. And then what? Will you stay in the army?"

Bates certainly hopes he will, hopes this injury hasn't destroyed his career. "This is my life, sir."

Crawley nods soberly. "Yes. So it is." He gets up to go, lingers, and then seems to make up his mind. "Look, Bates, I know what you did on the field. If you hadn't given me warning, we'd be in different places right now. I might not even be here. You would still be whole."

"No, sir," Bates said coolly. "We don't know that. That's a road I won't go down, and neither should you. We act under fire as we do. There's no accounting for it, no excusing or explaining it. It just happens. And here we are."

For a moment it looked as though Crawley might dispute this, and then he simply nods. "I'm grateful, Bates. If I can do anything to facilitate your recovery or to ensure your continued service, please let me know. Letters addressed to Downton Abbey, North Yorkshire, will always find me."

"Thank you, sir."

They part cordially. Bates knows Captain Crawley is sincere. They have shared much these past several months and are as friendly as it is possible to be when one is an aristocrat and an officer and the other a lower class private. But Bates does not expect to see Robert Crawley again. They have walked and will continue to walk very different paths in life. The intersection of the South African War is an aberration that will not be repeated.

Bates hardly has any time to mull over his fleeting acquaintance with this scion of an upper class family. The anxiety he is feeling over his wound, especially as the pain increases, appear to have caught the attention of the medical staff and suddenly. His wound is dressed and he is in an ambulance headed for a stationary hospital in short order. He is bewildered and experiences some consternation when he is passed up the line for more and better treatment. When he is subjected to an imposing diagnostic implement called an "x-ray," he really begins to worry. Is it that bad? Are they going to take his leg off? But he is assured this is the best means available to identify the pieces of shrapnel that have lodged in his knee. But it is only when he is recovering from the surgery to remove them that he knows relief. The leg _is_ still there. The wound is healing wonderfully. Perhaps he will even escape without a limp.

He would describe himself as a perceptive man, but he doesn't put this sum together by himself. It is months before he learns that Captain Crawley, deploying the influence that resides in his aristocratic title of the Earl of Grantham, interceded for him, prompting this rather zealous medical intervention. Whether it was through official channels or merely a casual suggestion made by someone who takes privilege as his due Bates will never know.

No matter how it happens, Bates is grateful. He suspects that Captain Crawley would write this off as a _quid pro quo_ for that episode in the last battle. Then he remembers the other debt of that day and wonders what could ever happen in his life to make him want to call that favour.

 **Note: This story reflects Bates's point of view which may not always be accurate, either with regard to events or the persons involved in those events.**


	3. Chapter 3: Vera

For some time now, whenever his gaze falls on his wife, John Bates wonders what he was thinking. She is not at all the kind of woman he likes and he certainly doesn't like her. Not anymore. But when he thinks about why he married her, he is saddened, and that is why he is where he is now.

Contrary to his fears as he lay in the field hospital on another continent, he is able to walk down the gangplank when he is shipped back to England. It's a relief. Things will be back to normal and he can forget that foreign place and the dirty little war that has taken too much of his life from him. He thinks it is that simple. But isn't, as he will learn.

It starts with the indifference, no, the hostility on the streets and in the papers. The Liberals are decrying the war from their pulpits in the House and everywhere else besides. Everyone has an opinion and the tide is running against the blood-soaked efforts to restore the rights of Englishmen in that far-off place. But it is the voices of other soldiers that get under Bates's skin, the ones who didn't go to war and have never heard a shot fired in the heat of battle or seen the broken bodies at the other end of a bullet's or artillery shell's trajectory. Blood and guts spattered on fields of grass or turning sheets crimson in the hospital tents don't sicken him, as they do other men. But his stomach churns to hear those who've never seen the blood or smelled the stench of infection and gangrene talking lightly about such things with the bravado of the ignorant.

And he can't keep silent when they start. He lashes out at them all, the foolish young ones or those desk-bound commissary officials who were counting shoes and buttons while other men risked their lives for Queen and country. Some men he knows, other men who _were_ there, take to their fists when confronted by these imbeciles, but fighting anyone other than an authorized enemy is a ticket to trouble for any soldier. Bates uses his sharp tongue against them instead, cutting them to shreds with words. Few men tangle with him a second time.

"That war hurt you," his mother says, when he goes round to see her.

"I'm fine," he insists, and makes a deliberate show of striding across the room and out the door to prove it. That isn't what she means and he knows it. But she's wrong.

He finds solace in three things.

There are a few men in the regiment that he knew well over there. They spend time together now, not friends but companions in an experience they share with no one else. It isn't about talking about the war for them, but instead _not_ talking about the war. They do that well.

They also do it over a pint down at the pub. And that is his second comfort. Ale is just the warm-up. Whisky is the real tonic. It numbs the mind, dulling awareness of his increasingly numb senses. Not feeling is a disquieting condition. It is like dying without losing consciousness.

And then there is Vera. She is a vivacious brunette with large dark eyes and a wide mouth that diminishes her beauty just a little. She likes _him_ all right. And he is distracted. Vera loves to talk and laugh and dance. He doesn't have to entertain her. He can just be there with her and lose himself in the excesses of her wild emotions and flamboyant behaviour. She fills in the hollows of his pock-marked soul. She'll do anything for him.

It isn't conscience that prompts him to marry her. If it had been that, he wouldn't have been able to convince himself that he was in love with her. No, he marries Vera because she is a conjuror who performs a sleight of hand trick with his emotions. In his mind he knows it's a trick, but he wants to believe. He lets her persuade him that what she has awakened in him are those deadened emotions, rather than merely activating the natural responses to appropriate physical stimuli. The vibrancy of her personality, the garrulousness and frivolity, and the recklessness all contribute to the deception. She tells wild tales, lies to cover playful transgressions like stealing cufflinks or pickpocketing papers and pens, all returned in good faith with a laugh, and he smiles because with them she takes him out of himself, if only for a few minutes. And then there is what they do together at night, sometimes all night, because he finds the intensity of their coupling one of the most effective antidotes to his increasing incapacity to feel anything at all. Vera is ideally suited to soothe such a wound. She is an enthusiastic partner and not without imagination, although sometimes she lapses into a coarseness he finds distasteful.

But it doesn't last. When the power of whisky starts to fade, he has only to up the dose to regain some semblance of blissful oblivion. When Vera's medicine wears thin, however, there is nothing to restore its potency. He finds himself wanting less rather than more. They grow apart, if it can be said that they were ever together in the first place.

She tries to win him back. But he finds her efforts - to make herself attractive to him, to please him with favourite meals or to amuse him with the old silly stories, and especially her efforts to make him jealous - feeble, and he is contemptuous of them. He comes home later, drinks more, and turns again to his friends in the regiment, shutting her out. And when he is at home, he uses his sharp tongue against her, knowing that she is no match for him there. He can see that she is confused and hurt. But he doesn't care. He wishes he could be rid of her and sometimes the only thought that crosses his mind when he looks on her is _What was I thinking_?

He notices the pilfering. Vera never tries to hide it. It starts with things taken from his mother's place. There's nothing valuable, just things that are identifiable as _not_ her, things for which she has no use - a book for a woman who does not read, a prayer card for a woman who doesn't know God, and a pair of dowdy grey gloves for a woman who has an eye for fashion. He returns the items to his mother. None of them speak of this habit.

There are other things as well, items taken from shops, more serious things - a watch chain from a jeweller's, a few hair combs from a general merchandising store, a silk scarf from a ladies' boutique, a book of poetry from a bookstore. These things he ignores even though she piles them on the kitchen table, evidence of her work, rather than hiding them away or using them, daring him to notice. Bates hopes she gets caught some day. Then she will go to prison and be out of his hair. But she appears to be very good at stealing and the pile of contraband goods grows, an ominous and inarticulate statement of her growing desperation in the face of his indifference.

They speak of it only once. No, they don't speak. They shout.

This time it is a brass belt buckle from an officer's uniform, from a regiment that is not his own. She has put it on the table, at his place, so that he will not miss it.

"What is this?" He does not try to disguise the disgust he feels.

She smirks. It is the first reaction she has gotten out of him since her thieving became a regular habit. "What does it look like?" she responds saucily. He used to like it when she was bold.

Patience is not something he has a lot of these days. "Where did you get it?" he demands, with deliberate emphasis on each word.

"Wouldn't you like to know!" She is happier than he has seen her in months.

"I'm not playing games with you, Vera. _Where did you get it_?"

"That's for me to know and you to find out!"

He never enjoyed children's games even when he was a child, and now his temper is loosed. "This isn't a joke. You cannot bring your stupid little games into _my_ world! You will not sully that part of my life, too!"

The impudence fades before a dogged determination he has not seen before. "That's right, _your_ world. The only thing you really care about. The _regiment_!"

"It's my _job_ , remember?" he storms. "The thing that puts food on the table and pays the rent. If you jeopardize that, _we_ will be out on the street, or in prison. And you might not be able to steal enough to feed yourself!"

It goes on, but eventually they are both spent. He storms off to find a drink somewhere, anywhere that is not near her, and she lapses into a stony silence, pondering what she has learned from this encounter. She draws one useful lesson.

Inadvertently, he has set the stage, not that he knows it until it happens. She has finally found the key to his attention and his feelings, even if they are very dark feelings and she intends to use this knowledge.

He is wary of bringing her along to the mess dinner now that she has breached the line by taking her pilfering ways off the streets and into the barracks. But the commitment was made some time ago and there doesn't seem to be any way of getting her out of it without causing inconvenience. She's done the work before and she is - even he must admit it - a welcome face among the other wives with her buoyant personality. He will watch her carefully. But he can't be there all the time, as he has duties of his own, and in the end he is almost the only one who _doesn't_ see her walking out of the place at the end of the night with a large bulky bag over her shoulder.

The contents are waiting for him when he finally makes it home, sometime later. His additional duties keep him late and she knows the way without him. And now, there on the kitchen table in the honour spot for plunder, it is all set out, awaiting his reaction. The regimental silver.

He stares at it in stunned silence.

Many thoughts go through his mind. She will go to prison for this. His career will be shattered. He could kill her. _What on earth was he thinking_?

It is a cathartic moment. Instead of giving in to the anger that she is anticipating and that should have been automatic with him, he leaves the room. He goes to their bedroom and locks the door. He sits down on the bed, puts his head in his hands, and he gives way to tears such as he has never known. This is what he has brought them to. She hammers at the door, calls to him, shouts at him. But he doesn't get up and open the door until the sun is well past the horizon. And then he only gathers the bag of silver and leaves the flat. She tries to speak to him, even tries to get in his way. He brushes her aside - gently - and goes. Vera doesn't follow him.

He goes straight to his commanding officer, gains immediate access without even an explanation, and deposits the bag on Colonel Markby's desk. The atmosphere in the room is stiff but oddly it is not antagonistic. It is almost as if the colonel had been expecting him. But before anyone can speak, Bates makes his statement.

"Colonel, I want to confess to the crime of stealing the regimental silver from the mess last night, under cover of the festivities. It was an abhorrent act violating all codes of military honour, and I ask that you place me under immediate arrest on a charge of theft." His distress of the early morning hours is gone. He is his stoic self once more.

His announcement does not get quite the reaction he had anticipated.

"Don't be a fool, Bates. We know Mrs. Bates was the culprit. We've only been mulling over how to address the situation."

"With respect, colonel, you are wrong. _I_ am the thief." He is determined on this.

Colonel Markby, too, has a limited supply of patience for games. "There were witnesses, Private."

But Bates is not going to back down on this one. "They are wrong, sir. I took the silver."

They go over the story a few times. Bates has worked out the details and though his version is not conclusive, there is just enough slack in the evidence so far gathered to shape it to fit his narrative. No one believes him, but they cannot conclusively prove otherwise, and he will not take no for an answer.

Eventually the colonel is worn down. "Why are you doing this, Bates?"

"Because I am the guilty party, sir."

Of course, they are right. He did not steal the silver. But he is right, too. He bears a heavy burden of guilt.

He has done Vera the greatest disservice. He swallowed her conjuror's trick with open eyes, but she didn't know what a fraud he was. It does not matter that she did not have much to give, but only that she gave him everything she had. He used it until it was of use to him no more, and then spurned her. He has ruined her life. And it does not matter that she may, indeed, be a disagreeable person or, in his mother's words, a nasty piece of work. She is still entitled to fair treatment and she never got that from him. The pilfering was a reflection of her awareness of that. And he didn't even have enough respect for her to try to put a stop to it. He owes her and this will be his payment of debt.

He owes the regiment, too. The scandal of this incident is something he brought down upon them. She is his wife. And he fostered the conditions that prompted her to steal. He is responsible for that, too.

But there is even more to it than that. The silver on the table was like the lightning bolt on the road to Damascus. (Bates may not have any time for religion, but he was raised in the church and knows the stories.) He has had a revelation. He has let anger and hate take over his life and everyone around him has paid a price for that, including himself. That cannot continue. But if he stays in the same _milieu_ , it will be impossible to break the habits of the past several years. Going to prison will be a soul cleansing experience for him, not that he believes in God or eternal life. He needs to find himself again, even if he's got to descend to the depths to do it.

This is a debt he owes himself. And John Bates always pays his debts.


	4. Chapter 4: Worse Than You Can Imagine

**Worse Than You Can Possibly Imagine**

He could never remember afterward how he had gotten from the house to the train station or how he had found his ticket half in his jumbling pockets. But on the train itself, though he sat motionless, numb with the horror of what he had done, the stone cold reality of the past twenty-four hours came home to him in glaring detail and he was able to chart with precision his descent into hell.

He had tried so hard to do the right thing, to behave as honourably and fairly as he could. Vera would have nothing about which to complain, save the fact that she wasn't going to get him back. That was done. She'd had her second chance with him. Even under the duress of blackmail, he had tried to meet her halfway. If it was a sham of a marriage, she hadn't been unhappy with it, glad enough for his presence and a fraction of his attention because in her reckoning she'd won the battle. A sense of victory carried her far. And she really hadn't like being alone. And she had always only had part of him anyway, even when they were at their "best." He did not think it unreasonable to believe that the months of their reunion had been harder on him. He _did_ know what he was missing. He mourned in silence the loss of the work he enjoyed, his comfortable association with Lord Grantham, and, of course, _Anna_. Driven to flippancy in some of his lower moments, he might even have admitted a perverse longing for the verbal sparring with Miss O'Brien. He did not like her, but she was quick-witted, something that could never be said of Vera, who was clever, but intellectually barren.

Who knows how long that might have gone on had he not learned about her infidelity. It occurred before they were reunited, but that didn't matter in legal terms. They were married, she had committed adultery, and that was the end of it. Her shabby little secret was out and it released him. She knew it, too. Although she put up a fuss as he packed his bags, it was half-hearted for her and she didn't even try to use Lady Mary's indiscretion to hold him. Her understanding of him might be only a surface one, but the one thing she had grasped was his commitment to honour. She had broken the compact in a way that was irreparable. It wasn't the first time she had left him - not once had she visited him in prison, nor even written him a letter. And when he'd been released, he didn't even know where she was. But this time the transgression was one with irrefutable legal implications. This was a battle she'd lost and she conceded defeat, or so he had foolishly thought.

He hadn't intended to go back to Downton, not until he'd resolved everything, but the compulsion to set eyes on Anna again was too much for him and then there she was at the Red Lion in Kirkbymoorside. Not that he could blame Anna. She had accepted his plan and, as much as he knew it pained her to do so, had gone back to Downton prepared to wait it out. She'd been waiting on him for years. That was a debt he wanted desperately to repay. It was ironically, Thomas, who inadvertently brought him back, through the irregular means of Lord Grantham via Daisy. He could hold out while he could claim both a desire to finish the business with Vera and a reluctance to face His Lordship again, but once Lord Grantham had cleared the air with him on their acrimonious parting, he gave way on the other. Could he not secure his divorce from Vera as easily from Downton as not? And in the meantime, enjoy Anna's company once more? No price was too high. He would give Vera all he had, all he had inherited from his mother, and do so gladly. What were material possessions to the kind of love that warmed his soul?

He should have known better than to believe that the dissolution of his marriage was a matter of paperwork and solicitors. And how he could have underestimated Vera's spitefulness and, worse, her ingenuity, escaped him. Revitalized, perhaps, by her determination to retain at least part of her victory over Anna, she had pocketed his money and returned to blackmail. And, when that was thwarted, had outdone even herself by divining a legal way to derail the divorce - by alleging impropriety on _his_ part.

It was, he realized, as the developments of the last two days unfolded in his brain, sitting there staring unseeing out the window of the train, the point at which the downward spiral had begun for him.

 _I am a stupid, stupid, stupid man!_ * he had railed to Anna, admitting that giving Vera all his worldly goods in exchange for her promise to keep quiet about the Turkish diplomat was tantamount to collusion, and thus grounds for the suspension of his suit. It was a bribe unrelated to the divorce - clever Vera again - but how was he to explain that without exposing the scandal? His stupidity extended further. Blackmail was the nightmare that never went away. It was the height of folly ever to give in to one who plied that trade, for it was an insatiable appetite.

He had only himself to blame. _Stupid, stupid man_. He fumed through the day, not at all placated by Anna's calmly determined assurance that Vera could never part them. _If we have to leave here, if we have to leave the country, we are going to be together_. But he was having none of it. Anna deserved to have everything right and he, even knowing what Vera was capable of, had ruined it, had made unforgivable mistakes. Irredeemable mistakes, at least. It was all his fault.

It was up to him to remedy the situation. But how?

He must reason with her. That's what he told Anna, but this was a futile proposition. She would never surrender. And he would never go back to her. It was hopeless.

And then... There had been a conversation with His Lordship. He'd had to ask for leave to go up to London to press his impossible question. His Lordship didn't know all the details, but he was aware of the general situation.

" _Please say this concerns property and not the former Mrs. Bates._ "

Without having to think about it, he replied, " _I only wish she was 'the former,' or better still, 'the late.'_ "

His words had struck a chord within him. And His Lordship noticed. They'd moved on, His Lordship advising him avoid anything foolish and he indicating, by word and manner, that his words had been merely that, a turn of phrase.

But the thought stayed with him and wouldn't let him sleep that night. _Or better still, 'the late.'_

The sight of Anna at the breakfast table the next morning only added fuel to the fire. Vera must _not_ be allowed to hurt Anna any more. He had let this happen once, colluded with Vera in breaking Anna's heart two years ago. He could not - would not - do it again.

The long train ride to London only solidified his understanding of the situation. Vera would not yield. She was tenacious, like a bulldog. Only death would release that grip. She'd already proven her capacity to find new ways to thwart him, new ways to ruin his life. They would have no peace while she lived. These feelings followed him all the way to the house. His mother's house. The house in which he had been obliged by her previous blackmail effort to live with her.

"You came," she said, smirking at him. He'd sent her a note the day before advising her of his intention.

"I had no choice," he said darkly. His Lordship had counseled discretion, advised him to hold his temper, but His Lordship had never met anyone like this. Patience and restraint had value only where reason was possible. Vera saw them, had always seen them, as signs of weakness.

"I don't know what you think there is to say," she said, closing the door behind him and then leading the way into the kitchen. "But we can have a cup of tea while you say it."

The last thing he wanted was a cup of tea or an amiable chat, but he had to follow her, his temper building just from his proximity to her. What kind of a harridan was she to hold on and hold on, just for the sake of doing so?

"You know why I'm here," he said, his lips hardly moving over his clenched teeth.

"I suppose it's about your attempt to bribe me."

" _Bribe! You!_ " His steely demeanour gave way instantly in the face of this bare-faced affront. "You committed adultery! I _chose_ to make our parting as comfortable as possible for you, to ensure that you would be well taken are of, and you throw it in my face!"

It was a mistake, of course, to let loose like this. His anger glanced off of her. "You paid me to save Lady Mary Crawley's reputation, not out of concern for me," she said with a shrug. "You're only angry that it backfired."

It made him even more angry that she was so cool. He could see what was happening, even as he let it unfold, knowing he had taken the wrong road, but not even wanting any more to do otherwise. "I _am_ angry," he seethed, his voice rising, "because you have lost the game, fair and square, and you are refusing to pack up and leave the field."

She laughed at that. " _Fair and square_? _The game?_ But I don't play by your rules. And on _my_ terms it's what works that counts. And it so happens that a judge will see it my way. You wanted a divorce. You paid me to go along with it. And _that_ contravenes the law."

"You are an adulteress!" he shouted.

"And are you any better?" Something had changed in her voice then, too. The sauciness had disappeared behind something a little more raw. "You and that little floozy from the kitchens of Downton Abbey?"

 _How dare she! How dare she impugn Anna with such a vile term and even viler sentiments_! Whatever their feelings - and you couldn't help your feelings - he and Anna had not succumbed to them. They had not defiled their love with the sin of fornication, while Vera not only committed the transgression, but flaunted it. And that this wretched excuse for a woman should not only destroy the happiness he and Anna might have together, but also characterize their love in the same vulgar terms as her own sordid activities, broke the last vestiges of restraint in his already-cracking armour of self-control.

 _Or better still, 'the late'..._

He dropped his cane to seize her wrist, pulling her arm out of the way and bringing the flat of his other hand against her throat, thrusting her back against the wall. He would squeeze the life out of her, put her down as one would a rabid animal.

But she had got her other hand up so his grip was not firm. "You don't have the guts!" she rasped.

Through narrowed eyes, he snarled, "I have no more compunction about this than about poisoning a rat."

She could still surprise him. She kicked his leg, knocked him off balance and then, when he teetered, she launched herself at him, clawing at his face with her free hand. The ragged edge of her uneven nails caught at him and tore his cheek. But he was already falling and then he was lying on the floor in a humiliating heap, which only fired his anger to new heights.

Vera was not in the least cowed by this engagement. He looked up to see her standing there with her arms crossed, smirking. "Wouldn't your precious Anna like to see you now," she gloated.

And the words, meant to demean him further, instead broke him. He went still. _What was he thinking_? In a flash, his anger dissipated and he was engulfed with shame. _Oh, but he was a stupid, stupid man!_ He leaned heavily into the wall, energy draining from him. He had let anger bring him to this. Anger, his old enemy. Anger that he thought he had mastered. An involuntary cry escaped him at the realization of it.

And then she came at him, barraging him with words. _You'll never get your divorce! You'll never make an honest woman out of your scullery maid whore! I'll hound you! I'll embarrass you in front of the great Lord Grantham! I'll see you sacked. See if she still loves you then, when you're in the workhouse!_

But her poisonous words had no effect on him, could not reach him anymore. He hardly saw Vera as he got to his feet and stooped to pick up his cane. Somewhere near him she was still going at it, her vituperation hitting new heights, but he knew only that he had to get out of there. It wasn't that he didn't trust himself. _Or better still, 'the late.'_ No, that had passed. His struggle had become an internal one, with himself. She grabbed at his coat, tried to block his way, shouted at him. He turned aside and turned aside, refused to look at her, refused to touch her or push her or disentangle her hands.

Only when he had stepped out the door did he glance back, and when he saw her face, he almost lost his footing on the stoop. There was a look there he had never seen before. Fear. But it was not fear for her physical security. No, she looked bereft. She had lost and she knew it. They would never see each other again. No matter what happened with Anna or the divorce, he would not come back to her again. And that is what he saw in her face. For the first time, she understood this.

Then he was somehow on the train. And now, headed back to Downton, his heart liberated from the hatred he had allowed to eat him up since he had spoken to his lawyer yesterday morning, he saw things clearly again. How had he allowed himself to fall into such a morass of black despair? This morning he could see no way out of this entanglement with Vera but for Vera herself to disappear. But now... He had anticipated the law's harsh judgment on the compensation he had given to Vera, taking his lawyer's warning that it _might_ be a problem as a fact. Why had he not been willing to wait for the verdict before reacting against it? And if the judge did so decide, so what? He wasn't going to return to Vera ever again. Patience was the key. She would be indiscreet again, he could launch another appeal. And while yet another delay would be excruciating when success had been so near, did he doubt that Anna would stand by him? And if their patience eroded and Vera discovered a sudden capacity for virtue, there were the alternatives Anna had suggested. They could go somewhere else, perhaps to the United States. Yes, it would mean leaving much that they loved behind and surrendering the stability they had here, but perhaps a great sacrifice was necessary. Would they not make such a sacrifice that they might love each other as they should? He had almost let anger destroy his life and Anna's as well. He was engulfed in horror.

Another wave of recriminations passed over him. He had done something far worse still. He had thought to take the life of another simply because that life had made his own difficult. It didn't matter that it was Vera and that she had acted hatefully and selfishly and with devastating effect. All that mattered was that he had entertained the thought that killing someone would solve a problem. Acknowledging that dark corner of his soul brought tears to his eyes and he did not bother to wipe them away as they spilled down his face.

He got off at the Downton stop without conscious thought of where he was and set off for the house on foot. Had he called, Mr. Carson would have sent a car for him, but the thought never crossed his mind. The numbness he felt at the depths of his wickedness shielded him from the sharp bite of a cold November wind. No exterior temperature could match the chill that gripped him from within.

They were finishing dinner when he stumbled into the servants' hall. He didn't even know why he went there. It would have been more sensible to put away his bag and go straight to work and try to establish some control over the emotional whirlwind that had shaken him to the core. But he had to see Anna.

She leaped up the second her gaze fell on him. As expected, Mr. Carson reminded him that he could have called for a car. He thanked the butler for his kindness, but had eyes only for Anna and they quickly withdrew into the passage. Her countenance clouded with concern, her naturally empathetic disposition absorbing his distress.

" _I never thought you'd be back tonight. How was it?"_

He almost recoiled from her. Her heart was full of empathy for _him_ and _his_ ordeal. And then she reached up to touch the inflamed scratch on his face and he abruptly caught her hand and pushed it away. Someone as pure of heart as Anna could not conceive of the depths to which he had sunk these past several hours. His self-loathing was complete

" _Worse than you can possibly imagine_ ," he said.**

 ***A/N1.** Much of the italicized text in this story is taken from Season 2, Episode 6 of _Downton Abbey_. A few original lines are italicized for emphasis. I have not differentiated between them.

 ****A/N2.** I thought this line deserved more of a backstory than simply another bad fight with Vera.


End file.
